I am the Pisces, suffocating beneath the weight of my own sorrow.
You watch as I fight against waves that crush the will from my bones,
A fish whose scales are heavy with despair,
Whose heart is a shattered thing, lost in the vast, unforgiving deep.
Each breath I take is a revolt against this abyss,
But each breath is a futile attempt to resist the inevitable.

You call my name, beg me to stay—
But the current is merciless, pulling me into the blackened void.
I swim in circles, drowning in a silence that devours,
As the water fills my lungs with its cold, endless ache.
The world above is a distant, forgotten dream,
One I can no longer reach, no longer want.

I am the Pisces, swallowed whole by my own darkness,
A soul unraveling beneath the surface.
Your hands cannot break the tide,
For I have already surrendered.
It is too late. The ocean has claimed me.

I am bubbling, as the soup I stir on the stove
Quick with anger, only I know dwells
Quick with the tempered fury of a wrinkled brow
Quiet the damper, let the billows out
Dam is flooded, I'm what's left.
Who is today when fury quickens
In mind, or conquered day by day
Simmering still, the soup is ready
I lay still the doubts of today

The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head.
Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain.
Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers.
A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers,
I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers.

My hands are sweat-sore with callouses
And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers;
I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn.
When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls
In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes.

This is now where one would rise, wake or come to.
Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms.
I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake,
The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams
Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams.

Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you?
Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through
Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors—
My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes;
I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies!

Nobody talks about the weather.
There is a good chance of wrought nerves.
This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps,
In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes,
An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence
As memories go up in the heat like celluloid;
Now the stars are a steely prison
Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing.
Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living -
Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living -
Outside the confinement of the Holocene.




*—I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.

Perhaps
In a single motion
He fell
Wind in his hair
The sky brightening
His eyes closed
Listening to the music of a faraway land
Slight smile on his face
If only he was sleeping.

I find the time I spend alone in barren lands beholds a wonder all its own
The dip and turn of roads leading to holes
Bringing all the progress to a halt
Exalted madness rules over logic not sought
Chasms grow and here I am rooted to one spot
Becoming one with complacency
Once leading now takes second seat
I see the scene of life so keen through eyes I've been
I am not me
I do not think
I tread the ground with iron feet
Unravelled it seems I've become a string
In a single direction my being can be seen
So many wrong turns and right twists
Each leap leads to the next spread
Snow so thin interrupted with each step
And I trek
Spilling my insides with each stride
I try not to digress but the stress
And the hate
And my chest is raked with pain
I can't go back but forward isn't there to obtain
The air feels thin only teasing the blood in my veins
A thousand stories on my skin, stained
I've begun the process of forgetting my brain